Джеймс Эллрой - Widespread Panic

Personnel assigned: Sgt. M. Herman, Sgt. R. Stromwall, Sgt. H. Crowder, Det. E. Benson, Spec.

Dep. F. Otash

5/18–5/21/55

The Hats and me. Full-fledged partners. One rich run at the roses. We reckoned we could race three full days. Max had a cousin in Bremerhaven, Germany. He worked at a pharmaceutical facility. They manufactured Pervitrol. It was a loopy lozenge that max imized merriment and once drove the Wehrmacht Tank Korps to pound Poland to pulp in record time. Anschluss!!! Blitzkreig!!! We rendezvoused at Stan’s Drive-In. Comely carhops hopped us pineapple malts laced with 151 rum. We popped Pervitrol and particularized our werk load.

We ran through our records checks to date. Dig: Janey Blaine dropped out of Visalia J.C. Her Smith — Bryn Mawr credentials were shucksville. She looked it, she didn’t earn it. Dig: her phone records came through threadbare. She buzzed mom and dad in Visalia and Robbie Molette. That’s it — sadly solamente.

We ran Robbie’s records. He had his own line listed at mom and dad’s Highland Park hutch. Dig: Robbie called Janey and the fourteen other call girls listed in his merchandise book. Harry braced the security boss at Metro. The boss vouched the names. He roundly ratted out Rodent Robert J. Molette, Sr. He’d been instigating ingénues into the call girl arts since ’49. He told Harry he’d have a damning dossier for them soon. We returned to Robbie’s records. Re -dig: Robbie called Nick Ray, Nick Adams, Jimmy Dean, Chester Voldrich, and Nick Knight Arvo Jandine. Arvo was the so-called unit fotog at the liquor-store job.

We discussed the Robbie senior and junior jihad. We agreed: senior would seize a lizardesque lawyer, faaaast. We agreed: we’ll hardnose Robbie and get him to give daddy up. I reported on my records checks. I lamentedly left Lois for a 3:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m. fone stint. I ran the Rebel rascals and supply supplanted my existing records checks. Now, hear this:

Nick Ray’s under subpoena from State and Fed HUAC. He ran Comintern-financed front groups, ’42–’43. Among them: the Hollywood Committee for Artistic Freedom, the People’s Party to Resist Censorship, and the Hands-Off Comrade Stalin Committee. Max interjected: he talked to a Sheriff’s Burglary bull this a.m. Bingo, baby: the noxious numbers on Nick Adams’ swag matched two recent 459 lots. We agreed: we’ll haul him in and bat him around till he bitch-squeals.

I returned to my Rebel checks. It was all junk juvie shit — Arvo Jandine’s excepted.

He was a whipout man. He tossed his tool during daring girls’ locker room gambols. He hit Pasteur Jr. High, Nightingale Jr. High, Le Conte Jr. High, Foshay Jr. High, and Audubon Jr. High. We all agreed: this cocksucker mandates consideration.

Eddie reported per the crime-lab crucible. Dig: the rape-o/presumed killer was a savage secretor. Ray Pinker typed his blood, off his putrid payload. It’s AB negative. Jammed upside Janey’s body: plasticene and foam fabrics. Car seat-cover shit. Bad news here: said shit was indigenous to Mercs, Buicks, and Pontiacs, produced between ’51 and ’54. We all groooaned. That meant mucho millions of cars. It came down to this: we had to check all indigenous makes and models per our suspect pool.

Cars. This banged our bells per a big issue. How did Janey get up to Mulholland and Beverly Glen? She had no car. She called no cab. Rock and Phyllis didn’t drop her. She didn’t wait outside Frascati. Ergo: somebody picked her up near the restaurant.

It’s in Beverly Hills. It’s a short hill hop up Beverly Glen to Mulholland. It all came down to Janey’s tricks, past and present. It all came down to Robbie Molette and whether or not Janey worked freelance.

Eddie riffed on the crime-scene canvass. It boded bupkes — nobody saw shit. Ray Pinker noted drag marks at the foot of Beverly Glen and the embankment. This indicated one suspect, pulling upward. A West L.A. squadroom dick disagreed. He studied a bunch of crushed leaves. They indicated two suspects, dragging Janey down that embankment. Per toxicology: Janey had a big booze load in her system. No shit: she sheared down martinis and most likely wine at Frascati. Yeah, and she gobbled or was force-fed four Seconol. Ray called her comatose at her TOD.

Max said, “I’m bored. Let’s go get Robbie. Freddy and Eddie, you come with me.”

Harry said, “We’ve got leads on Fat Boy I’d like to check out.”

Red said, “Nix. You and I will go pick up Adams. The Sheriff’s bull said we could have first dibs.”

I guuuullped. Jimmy was Nick A.’s 459 accomplice. I failed to mention that—

We strode in strong. Max, Eddie, and me. We’re overzealous. It’s overkill. We’re raiding the Beverly Hills Hotel kitchen.

We went in the employees’ entrance. We staged a stir. We eyeball-orbed for Reptile Robbie. It’s no sale, papacito.

Max braced the crew chief. El Jefe said Robbie was up by the bungalows. He had four breakfasts to clear.

We bopped back there. We saw Robbie’s pushcart. Max and Eddie snarfed left-behind bacon and home fries. Robbie bopped out of a bungalow. He lugged leftovers off lox plates and dirty dishes. He saw us and went Oh shit.

He dumped his dish debris and went all punk passive. He shuddered and moved meek and mild. We tossed him in our K-car and drove him straight downtown.

Max and Eddie sat up front. Robbie and I hogged the backseat.

Robbie said, “It’s about Janey, right?”

Max said, “Robbie’s wising up.”

Robbie said, “I’m just letting you know in advance that I plan to cooperate. I’m looking to avoid a thumping like the one you put on me last time.”

Eddie said, “Tell him, Freddy.”

I said, “You’ve got two choices here, junior. You give up your dad’s girl biz, or I put the hurt on you myself.”

Robbie’s dentures dipped out. I dipped them back in. Max said, “He gets the picture. His family life as he knows it has just gone pffft. ”

We drove downtown. We hauled him up to the DB and sweatbox row. Red radioed in. He said he and Harry just nabbed Nick Adams. Nick got bad-boy belligerent. They kicked his ass and sapped some sense into him.

We ensconced Robbie in Sweatbox #2. Max bought him a candy bar and a Coke. Box 3 was reserved for Nick Adams.

Eddie said, “I turned the hall speakers on. The Chief wants to observe.”

Robbie noshed his Nougat Deelite and chugged his Coke. Max, Eddie, and I straddled chairs. Robbie sat sidesaddle. He’s a passive putz. He’s here to help. He’s a fellow rat. Who do I have to betray to leave here unthumped?

Max said, “You’ve got your girl biz and your dope biz. Your dad runs the girl biz. He recruits, and you peddle the tail, exclusively at the hotel. You run the dope biz on your own, and you sell maryjane and pills to dickheads on film shoots. You suck up to film-biz guests at the hotel, and develop leads on the shoots in that manner.”

Robbie said, “Right with Eversharp.”

Eddie said, “For the record, did you kill Janey Blaine, or know who did?”

Robbie said, “No.”

I said, “What’s your best guess?”

Robbie glugged Coca-Cola. “I read the Herald. They said Janey left the restaurant alone. That means she’s on the hoof, alone, in deserted Beverly Hills at midnight. She left her car at home. Maybe she was meeting someone, maybe she got picked up. Here’s an insight. Janey was avaricious. Maybe a guy picked her up, and she sensed his interest. She offered him some snout for fifty clams, and it got all tangled up, and poor Janey got 86’d.”